11 The Brighter Buccaneer

Association, the Royal Toxophilite Society, and the British Squash Racquets Associa­tion; and he could have recited Sir Joseph Whipplethwaite's speech from memory, with all its infinite variations.

In that mellow oak-beamed country pub, where he had gone to spend a restful week-end, the reminder of that appalling politician was more than he could bear.

'It's positively incredible,' he muttered to himself, returning limply to his beer. 'I'll swear that if you put that into a story as an illustration of the depths of imbecility that can be reached by a man who's considered fit to govern this purblind country, you'd simply raise a shriek of derisive laughter. And yet you've heard it with your own ears-half a dozen times. You've heard him playing every game under the sun in his after-dinner speeches, and mixing it fifty-fifty with his godlike status as a politician. And that-that-that blathering oaf is a member of His Majesty's Cabinet and one of the men on whom the British Empire's fate depends. O God, O Montreal!'

Words failed him, and he buried his face wrathfully in his tankard.

But he was not destined to forget Sir Joseph Whipplethwaite that week-end or ever again; for early on the Monday morning a portly man with a round red face and an unrepent­ant bowler hat walked into the hotel, and Simon recognized him with some astonishment.

'Claud Eustace himself, by the Great White Spat of Professor Clarence Skinner!' he cried. 'What brings my little ray of sunshine here?'

Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal looked at him suspiciously. 'I might ask the same question.'

'I'm recuperating,' said the Saint blandly, 'from many months of honest toil. There are times when I have to get away from London just to forget what gas fumes and soot smell like. Come and have a drink.'

Teal handed his bag to the boots and chewed on his gum continuously.

'What I'm wanting just now is some breakfast. I've been on the go since five o'clock this morning without anything to eat.'

'That suits me just as well,' murmured the Saint, taking the detective's arm and steering him towards the dining-room. 'I see you're staying. Has some sinister local confectioner been selling candy at illegal hours?'

They sat down in the deserted room, and Teal ordered him­self a large plate of porridge. Then his sleepily cherubic blue eyes gazed at the Saint again, not so suspiciously as before, but rather regretfully.

'There are times when I wish you were an honest man, Saint,' Teal said.

Simon raised his eyebrows a fraction. 'There's something on your mind, Claud,' he said. 'May I know it?'

Mr. Teal pondered while his porridge was set before him, and dug a spoon into it thoughtfully. 'Have you heard of Sir Joseph Whipplethwaite?'

Simon stared at him; and then he covered his eyes. 'Have I not!' he articulated tremulously. He flung out a hand. ' 'Badminton,' ' he boomed, ' 'is a game that has made we politicians what we are. Without badminton, we politicians --' '

'I see you have heard of him. Did you know he lived near here?'

Simon shook his head. He knew that Sir Joseph Whipple­thwaite had acquired the recently-created portfolio of the Min­ister of International Trade, and had gathered from broadcast utterances that Sir Joseph considered Whipplethwaite an ideal man for the job, but he had not felt moved to investigate the matter further. His energetic life was far too full to allow him time to trace the career of every pinhead who exercised his jaw in the Houses of Parliament at the long-suffering taxpayer's expense.

'His house is only about a mile away-a big modern place with four or five acres of garden. And whatever you like to think about him yourself, the fact remains that he has fairly important work to do. Things go through his office that it's sometimes important to keep absolutely secret until the proper time comes to publish them.'

Simon Templar had never been called slow. 'Good Lord, Teal-is this a stolen treaty business?'

The detective nodded slowly. 'That sounds a little sensa­tional, but it's about the truth of it. The draft of our commer­cial agreement with the Argentine is going before the House tomorrow, and Whipplethwaite brought it down here on Sat­urday night late to work on it-he has the pleasure of intro­ducing it for the Government. I don't know much about it myself, except that it's to do with tariffs, and some people could make a lot of money out of knowing the text of it in advance.'

'And it's been stolen?'

'On Sunday afternoon.'

Simon reached thoughtfully for his cigarette-case. 'Teal, why are you telling me this?'

'I don't really know,' said the detective, looking at him sombrely.

'When you walked in and found me here, I suppose you thought I was the man.'

'No-I didn't think that. A thing like that is hardly in your line, is it?'

'It isn't. So why bring me in?'

'I don't really know,' repeated the detective stubbornly, watching his empty porridge plate being replaced by one of bacon and eggs. 'In fact, if you wanted to lose me my job you could go right out and sell the story to a newspaper. They'd pay you well for it.'

The Saint tilted back his chair and blew a succession of smoke-rings towards the ceiling. Those very clear and challeng­ing blue eyes rested almost lazily on the detective's somnolent pink half-moon of a face.

'I get you, Claud,' he said seriously, 'and for once the greatest criminal brain of this generation shall be at the dis­posal of the Law. Shoot me the whole works.'

'I can do more than that,' said Teal, with a certain relief. 'I'll show you the scene presently. Whipplethwaite's gone to London for a conference with the Prime Minister.'

The detective finished his breakfast, and refused a cigarette.

After a few minutes they set out to walk to Whipplethwaite's house, where Teal had already spent several